Words Can Be Used As A Bomb

Gone For A While Hoping, Always, To Return If You Will Let Me

I'm Sitting In The Bleachers, Watching Longingly As All The Boys And Umbumped Girls In My Personal Health And Fitness Class Play Muggle Quidditch. I Don't Even Like The Game Very Much, I Think It's Silly, But I So Miss Physical Activity That I'd Be Thrilled If I Could Run Around The Gymnasium With A Broom Between My Legs, Chasing After The Human Snitch Wearing A Gold Pinny.

Don't Stop Doing What You Love. Don't Let Your Future Be Ruined By A Bunch Of Loony Sand Monkeys.

I Do So Much Revising As I Go Along; I Wonder How I Could Write Books If I Hadn't Grown Up In The Computer Age. I Think I'd Be A Very Different Writer. I Find Myself Cutting And Pasting, Changing Things Around And Deleting Whole Paragraphs Constantly.

I Thought Marcus Was Going To Be In My Life Forever. Then I Thought I Was Wrong. Now He’s Back. But This Time I Know What’s Certain: Marcus Will Be Gone Again, And Back Again And Again And Again Because Nothing Is Permanent. Especially People. Strangers Become Friends. Friends Become Lovers. Lovers Become Strangers. Strangers Become Friends Once More, And Over And Over. Tomorrow, Next Week, Fifty Years From Now, I Know I’ll Get Another One-word Postcard From Marcus, Because This One Doesn’t Have A Period Signifying The End Of The Sentence. Or The End Of Anything At All.